


Familiar Electricity

by howdyspacebuddy (eigengrau)



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Deviates From Canon, Leap Home, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Sharing a Bed, multiple tenses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:02:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eigengrau/pseuds/howdyspacebuddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam adjusts the mirror on his car, watches his feet whenever he walks past a window. He covers all the mirrors in his house, like someone’s died—it’s just easier that way.</p><p>Sam leaps home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's finals week, I haven't slept in two days, I haven't written fanfic in over a year, I just wrote ~2000 words of Quantum Leap fic, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses.
> 
> Hit it.

It still throws him when he catches sight of his reflection—in a shop window, in the side mirror of the car, in the bathroom. Even now, months after that first glimpse in a hastily grabbed hand mirror, it still isn’t quite natural. It’s like catching sight of an old friend in a crowd, far enough away that doubt sparks in your mind: is it really them, or just a look-a-like?

After so long seeing unfamiliar faces, it’s his own now that gives him a jolt.

_Something is always a shock when you’re not expecting it._

Sam adjusts the mirror on his car, watches his feet whenever he walks past a window. He covers all the mirrors in his house, like someone’s died—it’s just easier that way.

 

“The president wants to talk with you.”

 Sam didn’t look up from where he was jotting equations in the margins of a tattered notebook. “Who’s the president, again?”

Al sat down across from him. “That’d be Bill Clinton.”

“I can’t seem to keep it straight…”

“Well, don’t hit your head, you’ll confuse whoever’s checking you for a concussion.”

Sam glanced up, finally, shooting Al a thin smile.

The lab was mostly deserted so late at night, a couple of techs still crunching numbers and security guards yawning through the night shift. Sam has a mug of tea next to him—mint, Al could smell it from across the table—and his fingers were stained with ink, though he didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Your pen seems to have sprung a leak, kid,” Al gestured to his hands.

Sam glanced down at them, dropping the pen like it had burned him. “Ah, damn it-“ He rubbed them on his jeans.

“Why are you still here?”

“I needed to finish these calculations while I still had time.”

“It’s awful late, Sam.”

Sam shot him a look, mouth twisted to the side. “Why are you still here?”

“To make sure YOU haven’t passed out in a puddle of tea.”

“Very funny, Al.”

“Hey. Come on.” Al slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “You’ve been up for nearly thirty six hours, Ziggy’s been keeping track.”

“I-“

“And cat naps in the break room don’t count as sleep, Sam. Why don’t you catch some shut eye?”

“I’m not tired.” He took a sip of tea, as if to prove a point. “And this math isn’t going to wait.”

Al glanced over the table at Sam’s notebook, getting a glimpse of the numbers before Sam could yank the book away from him defensively. “Hey!”

“I may not be a numbers man, Sam, but it looks to me like you just solved that equation.”

Unable to resist the temptation, Sam dropped his gaze to the paper. He re-read what he had written, mouthing along silently as he scanned it. He looked up abruptly and shut the notebook. “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”

Al pressed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “That hurts, I’m wounded.” He stood, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair.

Sam frowned. “Where are you going?”

Al rolled his eyes and extended a hand. “I’m taking you home to get some rest, dumbo. Grab your stuff.”

Sam took the hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. Some of the ink rubbed off on Al’s palm, a blue smudge by his thumb, but if either of them noticed, they didn’t mention it.

 

The light is blue, the tingling that starts at the crown of his head and goes all the way down to his toes familiar electricity. As the feeling of the leap subsides—just like all the others—he’s able to look around and figure out where he is.

For an absurd second, he thinks he’s on a spaceship—but no, it has to be some sort of a set. Maybe he’s leaped into another actor, another Captain Galaxy and Future Boy. He hopes they have cue cards—

But then no, it’s not a set. It’s familiar, the sounds—there’s a light shining in his face, so he can’t see more than a few chrome consoles, just the edges. There are figures moving around the room, silhouetted. Sam is hit suddenly with the queasy feeling of déjà vu.

He tries to stand, but he’s being held down—padded cuffs around his wrists, his ankles. He blinks against the light, tugging against the manacles, trying to bite down on the rising panic.

“Oh boy…” he mutters, and it’s like he’s flipped a switch, the room going quiet. The figures, he realizes, are staring at him.

“Did you hear…?” One of them says to another, and is promptly shushed. “That’s weird,” murmurs a third.

The light is hurting his eyes, and he shuts them.

Someone leans down, and Sam catches a whiff of perfume. He’s smelled it before, but for the life of him he can’t remember where—1962, 1979, 1957—

“Stay calm. You’re not in any danger.”

Sam’s heart skips a beat. His eyes fly open.

“Everything is going to be okay. You’re in the future, and my name is Doctor—“

“Verbena?” He gasps.

Verbena Beeks stares back at him, eyes widening. She reaches out a tentative hand, almost touches his face.

“Sam?” She asks, like she’s saying something insane.

“Oh god,” his voice cracks, “Am I me?”

Her hands go to his wrists in a flash, undoing the restraints. Suddenly everything is moving very fast. She yells over her shoulder—“Somebody get the Admiral, NOW—“ and his hands are free, his feet, and she’s helping him to stand, his legs weak—from lack of use, his rational brain suggests, and you’re probably going into shock, and it’s too much, it’s all too much—

—and then the door slides open, and there’s Al. He’s wearing the same hideous paisley button-down that Sam had seen him in before the last leap, the same burgundy waistcoat, and he must have run here from the Imaging Chamber because he’s panting, and the look on his face—

“Sam,” he breathes, and it breaks Sam’s heart the rest of the way. Sam lets out a sob, wrenching, involuntary.

And then Al is holding him, hugging him, the two of them sliding to the floor together. There’s wetness on his shoulder, and they’re both crying, and Sam presses his palms to Al’s chest, solid and there and real, and _not a hologram_.

“I’m home,” he gasps, and Al nods where his face is pressed to the side of Sam’s neck.

“You’re home,” he murmurs into Sam’s ear. “You’re home.”

 

The drive back to Al’s place—“It’s closer, I’ve got a guest room, don’t be so argumentative, Sam”—was filled mostly with the music form the cassette tape that started playing when the keys turned in the ignition. The case that Sam turned over in his hands as Al drove said that it was “golden oldies.” Elvis, Buddy Holly. Sam had listened to Buddy Holly just the other day—no, four months ago, no, four years ago, no, in 1960, in 1958, in another life.

He shook his head to clear it and watched the telephone wires go past. He was more tired than he realized. It was a hot New Mexico night, and he could feel sweat beading in his collar.

They pulled into the driveway, gravel crunching under the car’s tires. Al got out, heading around the front to open the passenger door.

Sam raised an eyebrow at him. “You know, the Calavicci charm doesn’t work on me.” He let Al help him out anyway.

“Excuse me for trying to be a gentleman,” Al grumbled as he unlocked the front door of the house.

Military housing is Spartan at the best of times—Sam’s apartment still looked like a hotel room, undecorated and plain, all his things still in boxes at a storage unit a few miles away—but Al had managed to get his place to look like a home. Sam envied how comfortable it felt.

Al bustled into the kitchen while Sam took in the living room. “You eaten yet tonight?”

“It’s nearly one in the morning.”

“I didn’t ask what time it was, I asked if you’d had anything to eat.” Al poked his head around the threshold. “I’ve got some ziti in the fridge, I can heat it up for you.”

“I’m fine, really.” Sam settled on Al’s couch. “Can I have a glass of water?”

“Whatever you want, kid.”

There was a stack of books on Al’s coffee table. A pulp detective novel, a book on quantum mechanics, a book on string theory, a book on temporal physics—

Al came back into the room and handed Sam his glass of water, nodding at his quiet “thanks.” Sam gestured to the books. “Doing a little light reading?” He joked. He was surprised when Al winced.

“Ah, jeeze, those—I really gotta put those away. The place needs a good clean…” Al trailed off. “You’ve gotta be beat. Wanna see the room?”

Sam followed Al down a narrow hallway to the back of the house and into a small bedroom.

“There’s an attached bathroom,” Al said, “And I’m just across the hall if you need anything.”

Seeing the bed, Sam was suddenly hit with his bone-deep tired he was. “Thanks, Al.” He said. “I’m gonna hit the hay.”

Al waved him into the room. “’Course, ‘course.” He flashes a smile at Sam. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He closed the door as he left.

Sam pulled off his shoes and socks, his pants, all the layers until he was down to his boxer briefs. He crawled into the cool sheets of the bed, listening to the hum of the central air and the faint sounds of night insects outside the window, and waited for sleep to come.

It didn’t.

Sam lay there, staring at the ceiling, at the wall, on his back, his side, his stomach. His eyes were heavy but he couldn’t will them to close.

A bad idea grew in his mind. A stupid idea, honestly.

The clock on the nightstand clicked to 1:30 AM.

Sam got out of bed. He opened his door, padded across the hall.

The door to Al’s room was open. Sam hovered in the doorway.

In the dark, Al sat up under the covers. “Sam? Everything okay?”

“Sorry, did I wake you up?”

“Nah, I haven’t even fallen asleep yet.” Al shifted, going to turn the light on.

“No, don’t.”

Al moved away from the lamp. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I—” Sam shook his head. “It’s dumb. I’m just having trouble falling asleep, that’s all.”

“C’mere.” Sam walked over. Al patted the mattress next to him. “Get in.”

“Al, I don’t want to be a pain—”

“Hey. It’s okay.” Al fixed him with a sympathetic look, deep eyes almost black in the dark. “I get it. You come back, things are different—sometimes it helps to just not be alone.”

Of course Al understands. Sam thought of the heat of the jungle, of young soldiers, of Al’s eyes and how they had always looked the same. The bed was queen-sized, at least.

Sam got in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was supposed to just be a quick little drabble to get me back in practice writing prose, but it's started to get away from me and it keeps getting longer? I guess? It might have a mind of its own. There's at least another chapter that'll be coming after this one. Whoops.

The military provides him with a new apartment— _the old one’s been sold, I’m sorry, but six years, Sam_ —though he barely spends any time there. It’s weeks of medical observation first, checking his vitals and brainwaves. Doctors monitor him as he gets used to the feeling of his own body again. Then weeks of psych evals, to check that he hasn’t lost it, that he isn’t going to freak. A few days in, Sam realizes that they’re also trying to make sure that it’s actually him. It’s a jarring thought. He doesn’t let anyone know that he’s figured out their ulterior motive.

Al brings him a handmirror that first night back, and sits on the end of the hospital bed,watching Sam examine himself from every angle. He looks like he can’t believe it’s real—like it’s a trick, like at any minute the face could melt and change into a stranger.

On one of his daily visits about a week later, Al notices that Sam has shut the mirror face down in his bedside drawer.

Life goes on. Sam finally convinces the doctors that he’s 100%, goes to his new apartment, doesn’t bother to decorate its blank walls. Things are different; people have come and gone, left and stayed. His memory still feels full of holes- he had a wife, no, he's never been married, no, he did, but now she's gone. Most days he just tries not to think about it.

He throws himself back into his work. He has new theories, new ideas. He's a genius, after all.

 

They fall into a pattern.

Some nights, Sam goes home with Al at the end of the day, neglecting his own impersonal apartment. They’ll order in dinner, or Al will cook—he likes to, and _besides_ , he says, when Sam offers to help with the puttanesca sauce, _you can’t cook to save your life, remember that leap with the four-star chef? If I hadn’t saved your ass with that gnocchi recipe…_

They eat, and chat or sit in companionable silence. Sam doesn’t talk as much as he used to, preferring to listen to Al tell stories or complain about whatever government committee they’re trying to wheedle funding out of this week. Sam’s more reserved in general, Al notices, more cautious, like any moment the ground could fall out from under his feet.

Al understands, and doesn’t press him on it.

Then they go to bed.

Some nights Sam starts out in the guest bedroom. Others, he doesn’t bother with the pretense and climbs straight in under the covers next to Al. The more they do it, the more often he goes with the second option. They say goodnight. They turn the lights out. They fall asleep.

In the morning, Al sometimes wakes up with his arms dangerously close to holding Sam, his chest pressed to Sam’s back—funny, he muses to himself as he carefully extricates himself from his friend, considering that Sam is a full head taller than him. The biggest little spoon in the world, Al thinks, aside from maybe his third (fourth?) wife, who was a model, and six foot one, and yow, the gams on her…

Al is careful to always be out of bed by the time Sam wakes up. Boundaries are important, he figures, even if Sam has literally inhabited his body before. Al kicks himself for the wording of his internal monologue— _since he’s leaped into me, Jesus Freudian Slip Christ_.

Neither of them thinks about too hard. What's there to think about?

 

“ _Sleeping_ _together_?”

Al flapped his hands at Doctor Beeks’ raised eyebrows. “Not like that! Jeez…” he flushed. “Just, y’know, sharing a bed.”

“A bed?”

“Platonically!” Al protested. “It’s not weird.”

“Right,” Verbena said, evenly, as she jotted down a note on the yellow legal pad in her lap. She glanced up at Al. “And whose idea was it? To… sleep together. Platonically.”

Al leaned back in the leather chair. It creaked under him; he felt like it was judging him, along with its owner and the potted monkshood on her desk. He leveled off his gaze at the plant. “Mine.”

Verbena made another note. “Hmmm.”

“The guy needs human contact!” Al exclaimed. “He’s spent years jumping around through time, he needs something to feel grounded to!”

The sound of pencil scratching on paper stopped. Verbena tilted her head at him.

“Did you used to share a bed with your friends when you got back from Vietnam?” She asked.

Al scowled. "That's an awfully personal question."

She out down her pencil. “I understand that you’re trying to help Sam—“

“You’re damn right I am—”

“But,” she continued over Al’s interruption, “you need to make sure that you’re not smothering him.”

“Smothering him?” Al sputtered. “I’m not some clingy girlfriend, Doc, I’m not trying to get him to give me his varsity jacket!”

“Al.” Verbena looked at him over the top of her rimless glasses. “You’re basically the only person he spends any time with in a social capacity. He’s self-isolating.”

“He’s still adjusting—”

“He’s shutting himself away.” Verbena softened her expression. “Admiral, for the last few years you’ve been the only constant in Sam’s life. He feels safe with you.”

“Good!”

“But you’re being overprotective of him.”

“I’m not overprotective,” Al protested lamely, unable to resist the urge to cross his arms over his chest.

“You can’t let him become dependent on you,” Verbena chided. “Just because he’s dealing with trauma doesn’t mean you need to handle him like he’s made out of meringue.” She picked up her pencil again. “You of all people should know that.”

“He’s a sweet guy but he’s not that sweet,” Al grumbled. “Have you talked to him about this?”

“Sam hasn’t brought up your sleeping arrangement in any of our sessions.” Verbena said archly, watching for a reaction.

“Oh,” Al squirmed in his seat.

The alarm on the desk beeped, signaling the end of their session. Verbena reached over and silenced it. Neither of them made any move to get up.

“Have you considered,” Verbena said, after a long moment, “that your feelings for Sam might be more than platonic?”

Al stared at her.

“I’m just putting it out there.”

“Yeah, all the way out there.” He had gone rigid and defensive in his chair. “He’s my best friend.”

“I know that.”

“And you’re suggesting that I’d take advantage of him?”

Verbena waved a hand against the cool, monotone anger in his voice. “That’s not what I mean, Al. I know you wouldn’t.”

“You’ve got a hell of a nerve, ‘Bena.” There wasn’t much heat behind it. Al averted his gaze, staring at the ceiling as he reached into his breast pocket for a cigar.

Doctor Beeks jotted down another note and fought the urge to raise a singular, arched eyebrow.

 

Sam was jolted out of a staring contest with a circuit board by the lab’s main fluorescent light flickering out, leaving him in the dull glow of the computer screens. He looked up in mild irritation, looking for the person who’d shut off the light, and realized that he was alone in the room. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that the lights, which were on a timer, had taken care of themselves.

Sam got to his feet, gathering his notebook and slipping the pen tucked behind his ear into the front pocket of his jeans. His stomach growled and he frowned, trying to remember if he had eaten lunch. He thought he had—pastrami on rye, slightly stale? Or had that been the day before…?

The growl returned, louder, a reprimand.

“Oh, boy,” sighed Sam, and forced himself out of the lab, hoping that the cafeteria would still be open at (he checked his watch) ten past midnight.

He meandered down the chrome-and-formica halls, a retro-unnerving combination of space age ambition and cut budgets. The Project had changed very little in appearance during Sam’s absence, and the familiar sights and sounds soothed his anxieties.

The cafeteria was indeed shut down for the night, metal grilles covering the various serving windows. Sam’s stomach gurgled insistently as he surveyed the empty buffet bar with despair. Where the hell were the vending machines?

Two halls over, outside of the employee lounge, it turned out. Sam stood in front of the glass-fronted machine, fishing absently in his pockets for loose change. The machine needed to be re-stocked, but there was a single granola bar sitting in its coiled spring with his name on it. He squinted at the price tag.

“Two dollars?” he grumbled. “Since when has a granola bar cost two whole dollars?” He counted out a pile of coins on his palm.

Behind him, someone cleared their throat. “Machine eat your dime?”

Sam whirled around, smiling. “Not yet.”

Al leaned against the wall outside the lounge, returning the smirk. “Need a hand? I’ll bet you could get Ziggy to hack it, get you free Twinkies.”

“Al, that’d be wrong—” he realized that Al was kidding and groaned. “Ha ha, very funny.”

“Boy scout.” Al walked up to and squinted at the vending machine. “Yikes, that is overpriced.”

Sam dropped his coins one by one into the slot. “I’m just gonna buy this and then we can get out of here for the night.” He looked mildly embarrassed as he punched in the number for the granola bar. “I lost track of time again. Sorry.”

“It’s no problem.” Al waved him off. “I was stuck doing paperwork all night, wasn’t gonna be leaving earlier anyway.”

The vending machine whirred, granola bar inching forward. Sam stretched his back, spine stiff from hours bent over a desk. The joint popped and he let out a sigh of relief. “I’m sure ready to get home.”

There was a clunk, and the granola stopped moving, dangling half-free.

Sam and Al stared at it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sam groaned. Al reached forward and banged on the glass; the bar quivered, but refused to fall.

“Ain’t that a kick in the butt,” Al huffed.

Sam turned away from the vending machine resignedly. “Forget it. I’m just gonna go home.” He started down the hallway.

Al cleared his throat, falling into step beside him. “I’ve still got some leftovers from Tuesday in my fridge, y’know. I could nuke ‘em.”

Sam’s stride faltered a little and he glanced at his friend. “I was over last night, though.”

Al shrugged, not meeting his gaze. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah?” Sam frowned. “You’re sure?”

“Sure I’m sure,” Al grumbled. He stared at his feet. “Nothing weird about two guys sharing a meal. I just figure, you know, might as well share it with somebody who’d burn down his whole house trying to make toast otherwise.”

“I’m not that bad a cook,” Sam raised an eyebrow, “And I don’t want to impose.”

Al’s head shot up an he blinked at Sam. “You’re never imposing.” He jutted out his chin solidly. “Never.”

 

Sam washed the dishes by hand, despite the fact that Al owned a perfectly good dishwasher. It made him feel like he was contributing something to the meal.

“Come on,” Al protested, watching Sam from his seat at the kitchen island, “I didn’t even cook! If anyone’s being a mooch, it’s me!”

“You cooked it yesterday,” said Sam, firmly. He squeezes liquid dish soap onto the yellow sponge. “That still counts. You’d be mooching off of yourself in the past.”

Al raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Just give him the sainthood already, will ya?”

Sam turned around and flicked soap suds at Al. “Knock it off, I’m doing you a favor.”

Al snorted, wiping bubbles off the collar of his shirt—lilac and lime, a personal favorite. “You know, five wives in multiple timelines, and I’ve never had one who’d actually offer to do the dishes.”

“Better get on one knee while you still can—I’m a keeper.” Sam laughed, back to Al as he returned to the dishes. Al chuckled—and then, suddenly, went quiet. He stared at Sam’s shoulders, at Sam, elbow deep in his sink.

“Oh, boy,” he breathed.

“Huh?  
  
“Nothin’, Sam.” Al hopped off the stool. “I gotta, uh… I gotta go use the head.”

Sam blinked as Al fled the room. “Okay, see you in a—” the bathroom door slammed from out in the hallway, “—second.”

Al stood in front of the mirror, glaring at himself. He was gonna kill Doctor Beeks. “Platonic bed sharing,” who did he think he was kidding?

“Dammit,” he said, softly, to himself. “I’m in love with Sam.”

Sam, in the meantime, was starting to feel the long day catch up to him. He shifted his stance t take the weight off his left leg— _older now, can’t keep forgetting that, gotta take care of yourself_ —and finished drying the last plate.

Al still wasn’t out of the bathroom. Sam left the kitchen. He was suddenly very tired.


End file.
